


it used to be

by sunflower_8



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Depression, Existentialism, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Introspection, Poetic Garbage, References Death, SDR2 Spoilers, Sad, i'm rushing this y'all cut me some slack, my specialty, my tags are like, not ship heavy, pretty heavy angst, the worst, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-28 21:43:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20432909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_8/pseuds/sunflower_8
Summary: it will.





	it used to be

it presses down on him, stealing the breath from his lungs and it hurtshurtshurts. his eyes burn red, and it tastes like a memory, and it looks like a memory, and he decides he doesn’t like it very much. his throat hurts. the words etched along his windpipe are rough and scratchy, and he drinks tea to fix it but it never really seems to  _ fix _ . sometimes he wonders if the nurse gets tired of his frequent visits, and slips a pill in his water, a pill that could make him finally sleep. but he doesn’t really sleep, in all honesty. he doesn’t sleep. he just closes his eyes and faces memories that aren’t his but they have to be.

do you ever sleep at night, and see a person that you recognize vaguely, but you know isn’t actually there? it’s a face you know, but it isn’t really them. the way they move is off, the way they talk is off, the way they stare at you like you have answers is off.

is that person ever you?

it’s dark. it’s so dark. well, that shouldn’t be surprising, it  _ is  _ four am. four thirty three am, to be exact. living in the same body as the ultimate talent had its assets, like knowing exactly what time it was when he woke up from a nightmare. he would use a clock, but his friend accidentally threw it out of the window, and he was too tired to get it. he was too bored to get it. he was too busy to get it. yeah, that’s the one. 

god, he is so busy. it isn’t like he has anybody to blame but himself. he told his friends that they could come to him if they had issues. so they did. he has nobody to blame but himself. 

_ but sometimes the urge kicks it, you know the urge, don’t you? it’s the urge to make a voice stop, it’s the desire to make a smile fade away and a voice fade away there are too many voices already and he doesn’t know which one is right right right right _

_ sometimes i can’t tell whose hands it is  _

_ mine or theirs  _

he sits up, throwing his covers off the bed and slipping on some shirt. it’s backwards. the tag scratches against his chest, but he hardly cares. he feels tears burning in the corner of his eyes, and he shakes. he has one hand on the door knob, when he realizes

_ he has nobody to go to _

_ it’s lonely. i’m empty. _

it used to be

her

who he could turn to if he was upset, or stressed, or if it felt like the entire world (and the lives of sixteen students) were on his shoulders and he could hardly raise a finger to point out that there was some crucial evidence they were missing. they were always missing something. but once they found that something, they were missing something else. something more than evidence. something like a human life.

it used to be

her

who made him think that it wasn’t all on him. he didn’t have to stay strong for everyone, or solve every problem. she was there to solve some in her empathetic, lazy way. and she would smile at him like she was proud, and he would smile back.

it used to be 

her 

who he was going to escape with. the one person he could trust in the end because he felt like he had known her for a lifetime. she was his lifeline.

it used to be

her

her

her

chiaki nanami

he lets go of the door knob and collapses on his bed once more.

it used to be her, but now she’s dead. she’s dead and it takes everything for him to not scream at every face he sees still alive because she’s dead. or maybe she isn’t. she’s not dead because she was never alive. she just...never existed. she never existed.

_ WHO EVEN EXISTS _

** _DO WE EXIST_ **

maybe he can live in the memories of her, though. survive off of the reminder that she, a literal computer program, had liked him. had appreciated him. had thought that what he said was enough. maybe he can smile at the thought of her whenever he sees a video game or a cat-eared hoodie. 

or maybe he could stop looking for a happy ending. just give up.

_ no _

he wants to try.

he needs to try.

she would want him to try.

**she would want to be alive**

**but she isn’t**

**she’s dead**

**whose fault is that**

it’s not his.

it isn’t his fault. he did nothing wrong. 

_ you didn’t do anything wrong either, you know? _

_ you didn’t. _

hajime hinata takes a deep breath, feeling the emotions wash over his body. it hurts. it will hurt for a long time. but for now, he can try to sleep. he can do that.

he rests.

_ please rest. _

**he’s wicked.**

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this a while back while i was having an depressive episode. i just kinda rambled, so it's basically a vent piece. i forgot it was a thing, because i'm starting some more chaptered fics rn, so i just forgot to post. but here. 
> 
> also, the alignments with the text mean something, but it's more meaningful if you figure out that on your own. there was a purpose for them, though. 
> 
> comments are very much appreciated.


End file.
